𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃, joseph descamps

𝟎𝟑𝟑. the beginning of january

CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS are not a time of joy and celebration for Aimée but rather a period of tension. The family laughter is often drowned out by the whispers of her conscience, slithering through her thoughts like a snake. Christmas and New Year dinners, with their tables overflowing with delicious dishes, become trials she must face.

Every dish, every scent, serves as a reminder of her struggle with eating disorders. And even though she tries to make an effort to join her family, a dull anxiety gnaws at her stomach.

On January 3rd, Aimée steps out of her house, bundled up in a thick down jacket that falls to her knees. She wears a gray turtleneck, neatly tucked into her jeans, and her hands are wrapped in wool gloves knitted by her grandmother.

To add a splash of color, she sports a bright red scarf that sways gently around her neck with each step. Her red hair floats lightly in the wind while her cheeks take on a rosy hue, accentuated by the biting cold.

As she walks down the street, the slush spreads beneath her feet — a mix of water and tiny shards of ice crunching under her weight. The snowflakes that had blanketed the ground a few days ago have given way to cold, slippery mud, a reflection of the spring that is soon to come but feels light-years away.

Aimée holds a wicker basket in her hand, already filled with a few apples and a baguette for now. Her mother asked her to go to the market for vegetables and fruits, a daily task. She slips a hand into her pocket where the list lies, crumpled and folded.

As she nears the market, she can smell the wafts of fresh fruits and vegetables mingling in the air, a scent familiar to her. The stalls are lively, vendors shouting to attract customers, and people chatting.

Suddenly, she spots a familiar figure — a woman she has met before... Joseph's mother. She is there, smiling, choosing leeks beside a vegetable stand. Aimée freezes for a moment, wondering whether to approach her or walk past.

Finally, gathering her courage, she moves forward, a slight hesitation in her movements. Joseph's mother notices her, her eyes lighting up with a warm familiarity. "Aimée ! What a pleasure to see you ! Happy New Year ! How are you, my dear ?"

"I'm... doing okay. A bit tough, as always with the holidays."

The brunette nods, understandingly. "I get it. The holidays can be so overwhelming. I worry about Joseph, you know. I know you're on break, but... it feels like he's under a lot of pressure right now. Is he doing well in class ?"

"He... he's doing his best. I've been tutoring him a bit, as you know."

"Yes, I know, it's wonderful of you! He really needs to stay focused on his studies. His future depends on his results, you know."

Aimée nods, a nervous smile on her lips. "Yeah, he's trying to stay motivated. But it's not easy for him right now."

"I know. He's a good boy, but sometimes he needs a little push. Don't hesitate to let me know if you notice he needs help. I really want him to succeed. You know, I'm so worried about him. He spends a lot of time locked in his room or hanging out outside."

Aimée feels a shiver of embarrassment wash over her. She recalls the last time she saw Joseph — his excuses, his words, those kisses on her neck.

"I understand," she murmurs, trying to hide her discomfort. "I think he's going through a tough time. But that's adolescence, after all."

"You're right. Maybe I worry a bit too much. Does he talk to you a lot ? You're close, right ?"

This question catches her off guard. She starts fiddling with the red scarf around her neck, feeling the warmth of the wool contrast with the coldness of the situation. "Well... not really. We mostly talk about school. I don't think we're that close."

"I see. But you know, I've heard there's a girl at school, Michèle, the butcher's daughter. She's really cute, isn't she ? Do you know if they're dating ?"

Aimée feels her cheeks heat up. "Uh... I don't know," she manages to articulate, her voice dropping a bit.

Joseph's mother smiles, apparently satisfied. "I think they'd make a lovely couple. But you know, I just want the best for him. Aimée, if you want, I'd love to have you over for tea one of these days. I made a chestnut cream cake, and it would be a chance to see Joseph. Maybe it would cheer him up."

"Oh, that's really kind of you, but... I need to finish my shopping," she replies, trying to be polite.

The brunette nods, a knowing smile on her lips. "I understand. But feel free to come over whenever you want, even just to get away from it all. I'm sure Joseph would love to see you."

Eventually, after a few more minutes of conversation, they part ways, each continuing their own shopping. Aimée wanders through the market, her basket slowly filling, but her mind is elsewhere. She wonders how Joseph is really doing.

As she exits the market, the slush cracks under her steps, and a slight breeze brushes her face. She stops for a moment, the basket of vegetables and fruits in her hand, reflecting on the rest of her day.

Her thoughts intertwine. Why do those criticisms, which had hurt her so deeply, make her think so much ? And then... she remembers the tone of his voice, the look he had on her, and even the way he stood there, near her window, that night. And then, his eye, his one eye, fixed on her, and the glimmer residing there.

Loving a woman with small breasts means being closer to her heart. That's what he had told her. She felt her cheeks flush as she recalled the intonation with which he had said it, a kind of soft challenge mixed with unexpected tenderness. Why did that phrase affect her so much ? Was it the idea that he saw something in her beyond her appearance ? It scared and amazed her at the same time.

With a sigh, she shook her head, trying to dispel the warmth from her cheeks. She had shivered at the thought of what he might have done, what she might have felt. He had crossed a line, but with such sincerity that she hadn't known how to react. She needed to focus, not to let her feelings for him overwhelm her. But every step brought her back to him, to his criticisms and veiled compliments.

The wind blew gently, carrying the cries of the vendors, and Aimée, with her wicker basket in hand, reflected on the taste of his lips. The idea of sharing a more intimate moment made her blush even more. Yet, it was over between them, right ? She tried to convince herself of that.